


Snow

by sweetHart



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mental Instability, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 12:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3569924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetHart/pseuds/sweetHart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's stance is as elegant and his voice as humble as ever.</p><p>“May I say, dear boy,.. you look rather unwell this evening.”</p><p>Now, he knows he isn't looking his best at the moment, but hearing it from a literal dead person is not among the list of things Eggsy has ever considered would happen to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow

Comparatively speaking, Eggsy Unwin has never been a particularly reasonable man, but even he knows he's being far beyond sensible at this point. Knows it as he shuts the door behind him, locking it tight. Knows it when he crumbles down onto the bed, burying his face into his hands, hiding himself from the hungry eyes of the world, from the terrifying clutches of reality. And only in these lonely, miserable moments of his does Eggsy allow himself to fall apart.

He's completely alone, in every sense of the matter. Alone in his thoughts, in his room where even the warmth seeping from the AC can't seem to soothe the cold in his bones. Eggsy curls protectively into himself, maybe hoping for some sort of relief upon doing so. He fists the soft sheets into his palms and lets out a quiet whimper. Despite being by himself, Eggsy doesn't dare let go. Because he full well knows that if he cries now, he'll never stop.

Shit, this isn't like him at all. He's Galahad now, yet all he's been doing recently is stain Harry's polished title. It's been a good few weeks; he's had more than enough time to mourn. And he's probably being really selfish, because Harry left behind so many others who'd known him far longer than Eggsy had. Merlin and Percival and his other fellow Kingsmen who had had the pleasure of Harry's acquaintance for so many more years it actually made Eggsy _jealous._

Truthfully, back when he had settled his score with Arthur, Eggsy's sudden outburst of “I'd rather be with Harry” had initially been but an attempt at a witty closing remark. Now he knows that he might've meant it after all. Another sob leaves the back of his throat, wrecking his body, this time spilling onto the sheets.

He's got to be strong, though. It hasn't been much of a problem to maintain his composure at Kingsman, looking every seemingly sympathetic good-doer in the eye and telling them straight out that he's gotten over it. That he's supposedly gotten over Harry's death. Eggsy doesn't talk to anyone about it; maybe that's why he's come to seek relief from his solace, more often as time goes on. The passed weeks haven't healed shit. Eggsy knows that as time passes by, the realization only keeps sinking in further. Maybe it will never leave him, this hollow feeling in his gut.

Eggsy rolls onto to his side and blinks the blur from his eyes. He doesn't think he can cry anymore, and his pride isn't even a factor. He's simply very exhausted.

Essentially, life is good. He got himself, mum and Daisy all settled in at the new house he was provided with, far out of the reach of that fucker Dean, if he'd ever decide to crawl back anyway. Highly doubting, considering the (well-deserved) beating Eggsy had delivered upon him after the events of V-day.

As a result, Eggsy's glad to see his mother that much more happier and fulfilled; though it will probably be a while before she'll date again. Also, it's probably needless to say how the new Kingsman house can't even compare to their shitty old apartment in London's asscrack.

Yet, everything here looks painfully familiar. Like the posh, antique furniture that Michelle seems to have no appreciation for (“Eggsy, _please_ throw that cupboard out, it's hideous”). It's so bittersweet, and Eggsy pretends that the layout of the building isn't identical to his late mentor's house. He most definitely doesn't grimace every time he sits down on the chair in his study, noting the lack of newspaper cut-outs on walls like it's offending his eyes. In fact, he doesn't bother thinking about the trivial stuff and how, in just a few days short of a month, the house has started to suffocate him.

It really is difficult to let go.

Sometimes he pretends that Harry's still alive. It's therapeutic in a way, although he's not sure either Merlin or Roxy would share his opinion. Sometimes it's even too simple to pretend that the Kingsman glasses sufficed, that _maybe_ Valentine's hand faltered, that the bullet only grazed Harry. That he is fine, somewhere. And after having recovered from a minor head injury, he'll be back among the ranks of Kingsman. Then Harry could take back his position as Galahad, even when that should mean shutting the door in front of Eggsy's face; Eggsy wouldn't even care at this point. Just as long as Harry's alive and breathing. Yes, that's the scenario Eggsy is hopeful will play out one day. Some day, the right order of things might be restored.

For the sake of linguistic simplicity: he lies to himself. He knows it isn't normal, but nowadays there are a few things about his life that are.

There's a faint knock on the door downstairs, and Eggsy reluctantly picks himself up from the bed. The last time he checked, it had been well past nine o'clock. Michelle was probably putting Daisy to sleep about now, and lord knows that she doesn't like to be interrupted. The little thing has always been very reluctant about sleeping time. Should Michelle leave even for a moment, Daisy might not sleep for another few hours. She's not _a_ baby anymore, but she's baby enough.

Eggsy saunters downstairs slowly enough, pinning his hopes on the person behind the door leaving. But the gentle knocks against the door don't falter in consistency, and Eggsy forces his hand on the doorknob. He runs his right hand over his face, cold and sticking with sweat. Whoever's standing outside will not want to see him like this. No matter what his current emotional state is, Eggsy knows well enough that a _proper gentleman_ should always appear presentable. Exasperated with himself, Eggsy twists and pulls on the doorknob.

“Hello, Eggsy.”

He blinks and does a double-check of the situation. First, he turns around, staring into the empty hallway behind his back. Nothing out of the ordinary there. It's his second look outside which startles him all over. He must really be going out of his mind. If he hadn't before, then this would be his starting point.

The door opens away from him, and Eggsy just kind of hangs on by the doorknob, body leaning forward, eyes unbelieving. In front of him a man in his late forties, or maybe early fifties, clad in a bespoke suit and a pair of black-framed glasses. 

Harry's stance is as elegant and his voice as humble as ever.

“May I say, dear boy,.. you look rather unwell this evening.”

Now, he knows he isn't looking his best at the moment, but hearing it from a literal dead person is not among the list of things Eggsy has ever considered would happen to him. Eggsy gapes at the man and feels the urge to swallow a few times, because the strange lump in his throat just won't go down.

A familiar ache explodes across his forehead. His head seems to have caught on fire, announcing the return of that migraine he'd thought was gone for good. Pesky little thing. Once you think it's gone, and expect it to stay gone permamently, it returns, suddenly, whether you want it to or not.

He doesn't know where he was going with that. Probably just forgot to take his pills again, damn it. If only Harry Hart somehow standing at his door could've been explained as easily as that. Or the emotions going through his aching head as he glances down on the street at him.

Eggsy ponders what he'd ever done to anger his demons this way. Surely a few of them must have it out for him.

“H-Harry?” he finally forces out of himself, voice dry and audibly incredulous. It's almost ten in the evening and apparently he's seeing ghosts. What a cruel joke, though. Eggsy doesn't even have it in him to laugh.

“This is probably awfully sudden, not to mention inappropriate,” Harry admits, looking a little guilty.

“How?” is all Eggsy can say without allowing the tears to spill again. His voice breaks midway.

Harry stands there like he doesn't have a care in the world, body weight supported by his left leg. Both elegant hands rest leisurely in his jacket pockets. Everything about him is so unmistakably Galahad; minus the umbrella, which he seems to lack at this point in time. His stance doesn't have the usual feline alertness to it, either. Eggsy thinks it's safe to assume he isn't here on business matters. Now he wants to laugh. Do ghosts need to run errands?

Harry looks way too overdressed to be dead, anyway. His gaze is upturned for the sole purpose of meeting Eggsy's on top of the staircase. A sly twinkle plays in his ridiculously beautiful, brown eyes behind the classic pair of Kingsman glasses. 

“Merlin had warned me about a possible ambush from the start. It wasn't difficult to expect for Valentine to show up, even considering how much less of everything else was planned out” he retorts and clicks his tongue. “To make it look like I had been shot by Richmond Valentine had been our plan from the start,” he seems to consider it for a moment, “Not that I was ever particularly happy about that.”

Eggsy feels so groggy now, eyes still red, mouth slightly ajar. It's like he hasn't gotten a good night's rest in weeks, which isn't _totally_ false.

“T'was all fake? A set up?” He wants to feel angry, but how can he? Instead, he manages to come off as a little fatuous. The person in front of him is definitely Harry Hart, same as ever, looking gorgeous in his suit and confident gentleman's stance. By the looks of it, alive too. If Eggsy's eyes can be trusted.

The man at the beginning of the stairs nods carefully, but Eggsy can't seem to let go of his suspicions. Can't trust this person as of yet. Why has this been kept a secret from him all this time? Why was he lied to?

“Why did you leave?” his voice is rising now, with the slightest hint of a waver in it. As Harry silently regards him, all Eggsy really wants to do is leap from the staircase into his arms. No, he _needs to._ Has to make sure the warmth he sees is really there.

“The bullet from Valentine's gun did not wound me, but the blast force did cause minor trauma. By Arthur's orders, I've been away on a recovery leave for the past weeks.”

Eggsy blinks a few times for good measure, still unbelieving, while Harry goes on.

“I'm so proud of you, Eggsy.”

This does it for him. Their last words to eachother had been nightmare fuel for days. Eggsy apologizing for falling out of Kingsman training, for disappointing him. Harry's cold, inexorable stare when he told Eggsy that he would be back to sort his mess out. How he wasn't able to keep his promise after all. How he'd died, still angry with him. _Oh god._

All this time, he'd thought that Harry had died, feeling screwed over and betrayed by him. All these weeks, he'd been beating himself up over it.

Eggsy practically runs forward and falls into Harry's arms, which open expectantly for him. He's glad. _So fucking glad,_ as he crashes into that warmth. Eggsy is almost positive he's about to start sobbing grossly again, when Harry's palm settles atop of his head. And Christ, he can smell Harry's cologne. It lingers on his bare neck and clothes, and Eggsy inhales his scent with the vigor of a drowning man.

Harry runs his fingers through Eggsy's hair, gentle touch and butterflies, sending fluttering jolts cascading down his spine. The man's hands are unbelievably comforting and he himself so invitingly warm that Eggsy doesn't even notice when it starts to snow, still so completely lost in the other.

“Oh my,” Harry says briefly, just slightly breathless. “Looks like winter's early this year.”

Eggsy laughs into Harry's shoulder, before turning his head upwards and planting a gentle kiss on the taller man's jawline. For now, his excited hands find a stopping point on the other's lower back. For now, keeping him as close as he possibly can, will do. He makes a mental note to explore every inch of Harry's skin eventually, even if his fingertips get burned from heated touches. Eggsy feels like he's more than allowed that privilege now. Harry is his.

They have all the time in the world. This truly is enough.

“'Arry, you _idiot_ , don't _ever_ do that again.” He only says, and Harry's hold on him tightens. It's a silent confirmation. A promise, one that both of them are supposed to keep, this time.

“Never,” Harry whispers, his breath hot against Eggsy's ear. And suddenly, it is cold. Very cold; Eggsy realizes he's standing out in the winter air without even as much as a jacket on. His hair is wet with melted snow. His lips cold from the wind's merciless kisses.

“Eggsy?” Michelle has appeared on the door now, looking worried, and slightly uncomfortable. Her hands are wrapped around her bare shoulders for warmth. It seems like Daisy has finally fallen asleep.

“Eggsy, come inside, luv', it's cold.” Eggsy realizes by leaving the door open he'd been letting cold air into the house. How reckless of him.

He looks down, at his feet, and ponders the reality of things. Was Harry ever real? He might've been, at some point. But now he's gone. Permamently.

Eggsy's not wearing shoes, obviously, or even socks, bare feet sinking into the thin layer of what was the first snow of the year. It's cold, but even more so with the memory of Harry's strong arms around him fading too quickly for his liking.

“You're gonna catch a cold,” comes Michelle's already impatient call from the doorway, and Eggsy is turning around so she can look at him properly now.

In her son's tired eyes, Michelle can see the same grey hollowness that's pouring cold white tears down upon them. She can see a hundred pains, and a thousand unsaid words, but she doesn't know, because he doesn't speak.

This is a rather sudden turn of events. The forecast hadn't predicted snow until late next month.

“A'ight, mum, coming.”

 


End file.
